


What You Can't Come Back From

by behindtheblueline



Series: Double Major [2]
Category: Hockey RPF, Original Work
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtheblueline/pseuds/behindtheblueline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no way a team would trade away a Calder-winning player in his sophomore season unless he asked for an out. C.J. can barely believe that Dex would get into a fight in the locker room, wouldn’t believe it at all if he hadn’t seen the tar-colored nylon holding Dex’s cheek together himself. Even if he has a very good idea what that fight was about, he can hardly believe Dex would pull that shit twice. </p><p>He kind of wants to hit Dex himself. How could he be so stupid? </p><p>No one in this league is so good that they aren’t expendable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Can't Come Back From

“Gonna go say hi to the new kid?” Otter hits C.J.’s shinguard with his stick blade as he stands and readies to leave for the ice.

C.J. shrugs. He made a point out of ignoring Dex when he first walked in. “We’ve already met” he tells Otter, his voice cold. He had planned for this last night, after he heard about the trade and was staring up at the rotating blades of his ceiling fan, willing sleep to come. He just needs to come in, keep his head down, get his job done, and leave. There’s no reason for him to interact with Dex more than is absolutely necessary for both of them to play their best hockey. He’s always been quiet in the room and distant with all but a few of his teammates, no one’s going to notice a difference. He highly doubts Dex is going to approach the situation any differently anyways. 

“Okay,” Otter says slowly, clearly confused at the hostility in C.J.’s tone. “Tie your skates, rookie. You’re going to be late.” He smacks C.J. with his stick one more time before leaving the locker room. 

C.J. realizes with a jolt that most of his teammates are already making their way out of the locker room. The extra Klonopin he added to his morning meds and washed down with his coffee is making him floaty, but he figures being spacey is better than having a panic attack on the ice. As long as none of the team trainers or doctors catch on, he’s good to go. 

“I’m not a rookie,” C.J. grumbles at Otter’s retreating form. He pulls the laces on his skates tight and ties them with practiced precision. He’s just finished carefully wrapping tape around his ankles when he sees another pair of skates enter his frame of vision. 

“Hey.”  

C.J. freezes with his head ducked. He tries to glance around the locker room without raising his head to see how many of his teammates are left milling around.  

“It’s just us in here.” C.J. is struck by the sadness coloring his tone.

“What do you want, Dex?” 

“Seriously?” Dex asks incredulously. C.J. still hasn’t looked up. “We’re on the same fucking team now, you can’t keep avoiding me forever. I thought you would have gotten over this shit by now. It’s not like you can run away to another team every time I show up in the same locker room.”

C.J. looks up at Dex for the first time and he’s struck by how calm Dex looks, like being here isn’t affecting him in the slightest. C.J.’s heard the rumors, but Dex looks even worse up close than he imagined. There’s a faded, bile-colored bruise ringing one of his green eyes and stark black stitches lining his cheekbone. There’s no way in hell that he got into a fight on the ice. “Isn’t that exactly what you did? Ran away from a locker room because another one of your teammates called you a fag?” 

“You don’t know a fucking thing about Quebec,” Dex snarls, composure visibly shaken. C.J. feels a sick sense of pleasure at knowing that Dex isn’t as unaffected as he wants C.J. to believe. 

“Why else would you be here then? Teams don’t trade away first-overall picks because it’s good for them.”

“Look, I didn’t ask to be traded here of all places, alright? But it fucking happened and we’re just going to have to deal with it. So let’s just try and leave all of that shit in the past and just do our jobs, okay?”

“Fine.” C.J. grabs his helmet and stick and shoulders past Dex out of the locker room. He doesn’t look back to see if Dex follows.

 

 ***

 

He skates a few lazy laps around the fresh ice to get his legs warm as the rest of the team stands at center ice, waiting for their coach. He hates the way he can so easily pick Dex out of the mass of bodies; everything about him is familiar— from the slope of his shoulders to the freckles dusting his nose. He reminds C.J. so much of home it’s painful. 

Skate that morning is simple, the same as any other game day; after they warm-up and stretch, they work on line rushes and of course Dex is playing on C.J.’s left. _Of fucking course_. Dex fills the hole conveniently left by Vogel on C.J.’s line seamlessly; he plays the same fast, smart game that he played in juniors and it’s clear from the start that C.J. and Dex have played together before. Their coach doesn’t even try Dex in any other line combinations after he sees him play with C.J. centering. 

It’s frustratingly easy for C.J. to play with Dex on his line. Dex is just as reluctant to communicate with him as C.J. is, but hockey is a language they both speak fluently and they don’t have to do more than exchange a few stilted words to set up a play. He doesn’t know if he should be upset or settled by the fact that, even after everything else has changed, hockey with Dex is still the easiest thing he’s done since a faceless man in a suit stood at a podium and said, “With the second overall pick, the Seattle Emeralds select…”

 

***

 

His phone won’t stop buzzing on the table, tearing his attention away from yesterday’s highlights. Tremors run through his hands as he grabs it. 

“You busy?” Otter asks before C.J. can even get a ‘hello’ out.

“No,” C.J. answers slowly. “Why?” 

“Beau and I were just talking about your boy and—“

“My boy?”

“Dex. Fish said you guys played junior together in Madison.”

“Fish needs to learn to mind his own business,” C.J. bites out. “Dex isn’t my boy.”

“Whoa, touchy. No need to get all defensive.” C.J. can _hear_ Otter’s smirk over the phone. “Anyways, I’m with Beau at that coffee shop on Sixteenth and Trenton. We wanted to get your take on the kid before the game tomorrow; why don’t you come on down?” 

C.J. sighs. He does not want to get suckered into having a conversation about Dex with the team’s two alternates. “I don’t know, Otts, I was planning on—“ 

“Let me rephrase that, come get coffee with me and Beau so we can chat about the new kid. See you in fifteen.” Otter hangs up before C.J. can protest. 

C.J. is _fucked_. There's no way Otter and Beau are dragging him down there just to ‘chat’ about his former line mate. C.J. has no idea what they could possibly be so concerned about with Dex, unless they know something they shouldn’t. C.J. has to clench his hands into tight fists to control the shaking. If they somehow know, it’s over. He’s done. He might as well start packing his bags now. 

He has breathing exercises for moments like these, recommended by the team psych, but he doesn’t have time for that right now. He bypasses that step without a backwards glance and makes his way up to his bathroom. There, tucked away in the cabinet over the sink, are little orange bottles filled with pills of all shapes and sizes. His hands fumble through them as he skims their labels until he finds the one he’s looking for. 

Klonopin, PRN. His for-emergencies-only, ‘seriously, Mr. Hunt, these are an absolute last resort because you’re scratched if you use them before a game,’ medication for those pesky little panic attacks he still doesn’t want to admit he gets. He pops the top, tosses a little orange pill up, catches it on his tongue, and dry swallows. He’s going to be fine.

  

“Alright, you assholes dragged me down here, what do you want to know?” C.J. chirps as he sinks into a chair between Otter and Beau. He scoots over, the metal chair scraping loudly against the concrete, as he angles himself under the patio umbrella in case it starts raining in earnest. He _hates_ rain; it makes him ache for snow and still evenings spent on his backyard rink watching each flake float down underneath the flood lights. He and Dex used to stay out practicing trick shots and taking turns in goal until the snow got too deep to shoot the puck through. He flips the hood of his sweatshirt up and tucks his hands into the pocket to hide their nervous trembling. It’s always the last thing to go after an attack.

"Jesus, kid,” Beau smiles, shaking his head. “You sure know how to make an entrance.” 

“Whatever. You guys are the ones who called me down here on my day off. So spill, what do you want?” His imagination ran wild the entire time he was driving to the coffee shop. He needs to know _now_ , before he convinces himself that they somehow know everything and are just waiting to tell him he’s off the team, being sent back to the minors and never being called up again. 

“I thought you got drafted from Kelowna,” Otter asks, throwing C.J. off guard. 

“Yeah, I did,” C.J. says slowly, unsure of where this is heading. “Why?”

“Fish said you played junior with Lewis, but he got drafted out of Madison.”

C.J.’s stomach sinks. “I played in Madison for a couple seasons until I moved to Kelowna before the draft.” 

“Why’d you leave?” Beau asks; he sounds genuinely curious, not suspicious, but C.J. can feel his anxiety beginning to climb underneath the cloud of medicated calm regardless. 

He shrugs. “I thought my prospects of going higher in the draft were better in Kelowna. My agent agreed, so I moved.” 

Otter hums under his breath, staring at C.J. for a long moment before nodding in acquiescence. “Right. Well, anyways, what’s the story with Lewis?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You heard about what happened in Quebec, yeah?” Otter asks. 

“No shit, everyone in the league knows about that, dumbass,” Beau interjects, chucking a crumpled-up straw wrapper at Otter’s head. 

“Whatever,” Otter grumbles, throwing a sugar packet at Beau in retaliation. C.J. wonders, sometimes, how it is that these two became alternate captains. 

C.J.’s heard the rumors floating around, but he wants to know why exactly Otter called him down here. “I didn’t hear the whole story.”

“Word's been going around that he got into some huge fight with one of the guys in the room right in the middle of preseason and then asked for a one-way ticket out of Quebec right after, but no one’s saying what it was about or who it was with—“

Otter’s story must be true; there's no way a team would trade away a Calder-winning player in his sophomore season unless he asked for an out. C.J. can barely believe that Dex would get into a fight in the locker room, wouldn’t believe it at all if he hadn’t seen the tar-colored nylon holding Dex’s cheek together himself. Even if he has a very good idea what that fight was about, he can hardly believe Dex would pull that shit twice. 

He kind of wants to hit Dex himself. How could he be so _stupid_? No one in this league is so good that they aren’t expendable.

“And you think I might somehow magically know?” 

Otter chucks a sugar packet at C.J. “Watch it, rookie. We just wanted to know if you two still talked and if you know something about it. But since you apparently don’t, we still want to know what you know about the kid. If he’s going to be a problem in the room, we’d rather know about it now. The team’s got good chemistry this year, we don’t want some hotshot kid with a huge head fucking that up, y’know?” 

C.J. doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if there’s a good way for him to answer the question. There are so many things he could say, none of which will ever pass his lips. He finally settles on a statement bland enough it could be a sound bite for the press. He picks at a faded scar on his knuckle as he speaks. “Dex was a good teammate. Sometimes he let his emotions get the better of him, but he never started anything and he never let it affect his game.”

“That’s it?” Otter asks incredulously. 

“What did you want me to say?” 

“I don’t know, Fish said you guys were like inseparable in Madison,” Otter explains. “Line mates for the ages, or some shit. Like a junior version of Seguin and Benn.”

“Fish doesn’t know shit,” C.J. tries to keep the emotion out of his voice and fails miserably. “He played his junior in _Mississauga_ for fuck’s sake.”

“So you don’t know anything else about him?” Beau presses.  

“He’s got a nice wrister,” C.J. deadpans. “But he can’t backhand for shit.”

“You're something else, kid,” Otter smirks before checking his watch. “Drew’s meeting us here at eleven, so unless you want to get sucked into an hour-long discussion about the penalty kill, I'd make yourself scarce.”

“I'm not even on a PK unit.” 

“Exactly. Beat it.”

C.J. feels the ghost of a smile on his lips for the first time that day. “Right.” He shoves his chair back and digs his keys out of his pocket. “See you guys tomorrow at skate.” 

 

***

 

C.J. stares transfixed at the Emeralds logo adorning the dressing room floor as Drew addresses the team before their first game on home ice. He has a white-knuckled grip on his stick as waves of nausea roll over him, can barely hear a word that their captain is saying over the roaring in his ears. The clock on the wall is slowly counting down to puck drop and the closer it gets to zero, the higher C.J.’s anxiety spikes. 

A gentle punch to his shoulder startles him and he shifts his gaze from the logo to the concerned face of one of his teammates. “You okay, kid?” Otter asks. “You’re looking pale.”  

C.J. nods. “I’m good, just nervous, you know?”

“It’s just Buffalo; you’re going to be fine.” Otter ruffles his hair and stands. “Let’s go.”

C.J.’s knees quake as he gets to his feet and follows his team onto the ice. His heart flutters through the anthem and the announcement of the starting lineup and it doesn’t slow down even as the puck is being dropped. He thinks he might almost be as nervous as he was before his first NHL game, when he spent the entire afternoon beforehand throwing up. 

He hasn’t played a game on Dex’s right since he fled Madison to play his final year of junior in Kelowna three years ago. He’s barely even made eye contact with Dex since then, but centering him is still as natural and easy as putting one skate in front of the other. His eyes track Dex as he carries the puck across the neutral zone; he looks good. He’s coming off of a Calder-winning rookie season and he’s skating like he knows he belongs. C.J. hates him for it.

 

***

 

If C.J. was considered aloof with his teammates before, he’s now a ghost. He plans his days around spending as little time with the team as possible; he comes to practice just before they have to be on the ice and leaves the second it’s finished. The same goes for games and team meetings. He actively avoids any off-ice interaction with his teammates, letting texts go unanswered and invitations to post-game celebrations at the bars ignored. Otter, Beau, Fish— hell, even Drew— are beginning to shoot him concerned glances from their positions on the ice or from their stalls in the locker room, but C.J. just ignores those too.  

He’s lounging on his bed in another bland hotel room after a road win playing a rousing game of solitaire on his phone when Otter comes back from the bar his teammates had all disappeared to. It’s barely midnight, he wasn’t expecting anyone to be back for another hour or so, and he definitely wasn’t expecting Otter to be coming back to his room instead of Fish. 

“Hey, kid,” he greets as he settles on the edge of the other bed and faces C.J.

“Hey, Otts,” C.J. replies uneasily. “Where’s Fish?" 

“He’s staying with Beau tonight. Told him I wanted to talk to you.” 

C.J.’s heart rate spikes instantly and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting with his legs folded underneath him and facing Otter. “Why?”

Otter sighs. “I was talking to Lewis at the bar,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “And he was asking about you—“ 

“What the fuck do you mean he was asking about me?”

“Chill,” Otter orders. “He was just asking if you’ve always been so freaking isolated from the team and why you never hang out with the guys after practice or games or just ever. And it made me realize that besides the fact that you’ve turned into a hermit, you never told me what went down between you two.”

“What are you talking about?” C.J. asks. “I already told you, we played junior together for a while. That’s it.”  

“I don’t buy that for a second. There’s no way you just fucked off to Kelowna to go like a spot higher in the draft when you were already slated to go in the top five. Besides, you treat Lewis like he’s got the plague and he told me you guys knew each other for way longer than that.” 

C.J. groans. “He needs to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut.” 

“He was drunk and I asked the right questions. Spill.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“The truth would be nice.” 

“Dex and I grew up together.” C.J. sighs. “We had a fight in juniors and I didn’t think I could play with him anymore so I left. We hadn’t spoken since until he got traded.” 

Otter whistles. “Must have been a hell of a fight.”

“I guess.” 

“So you’ve just been avoiding everyone because of some fight you had in juniors? Guys get into it all the time, it happens. Were you just planning on avoiding the entire team until one of you got traded or retired or what?” 

C.J. is so fucking relieved that Otter doesn’t know what the fight was about he almost can’t form words. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Dex. You know I’m not really into going out all the time and shit like that—“ 

“I know,” Otter interrupts. “But I also know that you aren’t an actual fucking hermit—at least you weren’t before Lewis showed up. So if it’s not him, what’s going on with you?”

“There isn’t anything going on—“ 

“That’s fucking bullshit; you and I both know something’s up.” Otter hesitates before speaking again. “Are you still taking your meds? And talking to the docs?”

“Yes, mom,” C.J. snarks. He almost wants to laugh; if Otter knew about all the meds they have him on just to keep him afloat enough to play, he’d lose his shit.

“Stop,” Otter barks, abnormally sharp and serious. “This isn’t a fucking joke. I’m being serious, kid, I’m worried about you.”

C.J. plays with a loose thread on his shirt, unsure of what to say. He shrugs his shoulders without meeting Otter’s gaze. 

“I thought that things were getting better,” Otter continues after it becomes apparent that C.J. has nothing to say. “You seemed like things were okay." 

“I’m fine, Otter, seriously.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” 

“Shut up. I’m really fine.”

“No, you were fine when you actually hung out with the team without me holding a gun to your head and you showed up to the rink without looking like you were walking down death row. Now you seem like things are even worse than when you first showed up,” Otter says. “I know you moved out and think you’re all grown up now, but you’re still my rookie and it’s still my job to look after you. You can still talk to me about whatever, you know?”

C.J. winds the thread around his finger, watches as the tip turns white. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Promise me,” Otter presses 

“Yeah, sure, I promise.” There’s not point in telling Otter now, unless he knows how to time travel and change the past. C.J. pulls at the thread until it snaps. 

 

***

 

_Must have been a hell of a fight_. Otts has no idea. 

Junior was a shit show. C.J., a bundle of secrets and insecurities, and Dex, a spark of defiance and ambition, collided hard enough that it’s amazing either was left standing. 

It went like this: The pair had been best friends since Dex’s family moved from Winnipeg to Madison in sixth grade. One was rarely seen without the other, on or off the ice, until one afternoon after practice, when Dex pressed his winter-chapped lips against C.J.’s in the middle of the deserted locker room. C.J. will never forget the taste of peppermint chapstick on his lips or the vivid red stain that dripped onto Dex’s sweatshirt after C.J. punched him hard enough to split his lip open. 

When Dex tried to talk to him afterwards, C.J. hit him again, painted a smear of vibrant purple underneath the dusting of freckles across his cheek. C.J. still has the scar from his split knuckle to prove it. 

The next season, C.J. fled to Kelowna and put bright green eyes and peppermint lips firmly in his past. He locked them up where no one would ever find them, along with the un-acknowledgeable truth: he had kissed Dex back. Some things he’ll take to his grave.

He hasn’t stopped being able to think about it since then and it’s only gotten worse since Dex has been in Seattle. C.J. spends hours staring up at the ceiling every night, flashes of Dex playing through his mind. The way his brow furrows when he’s breaking down a play. His calloused fingertips on C.J.’s chin, tipping it up for a kiss. The steady stream of scarlet blood pouring from his lip. 

Being in the locker room is stifling, now. Dex is so close, yet so unreachable C.J. might as well still be playing for Quebec. He used to be so angry at Dex for being so reckless, so defiant and sure of himself; now all he can feel as he steals glances at his crooked smile across the locker room is regret.

 

***

 

C.J.'s pulling on his suit in the locker room after another home game and chugging aspiked Gatorade when Otter corners him in front of his stall. 

“Guys are all going out tonight,” Otter tells him. “You want a ride to the bar?”

“I don’t know,” C.J. mumbles. The anxiety that has dogged him all night is finally subsiding and it’s left him exhausted. “Not really feeling it tonight. I was just going to go home and crash.” 

“You have to come,” Otter presses. “Big win against a division rival and all.”

“No thanks to me,” C.J. mutters, looking down at his shoes to avoid his teammate’s gaze.

“What are you even talking about? Your line played great.”

“I didn’t even get a point tonight.”

“So? You had a couple good looks at the net and you were strong on the back check. It’s not all about the scoresheet, kid. Now fix your tie and let’s go. I’m driving.” 

“Seriously, Otts, I’m going home,” C.J. argues, fidgeting with the knot of his tie until it lays flush against his adam’s apple. “I just need to sleep this one off.”

Otter stares intently at his eyes for a moment, searching, before sighing heavily. “Alright. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow. No funny business.”

C.J. flushes. “Right. See you tomorrow.”

He waits in his stall, pulling spent tape off of his stick blade, as the locker room slowly empties out. He’s run through every play he fucked up on the ice tonight twice before he realizes that the locker room is empty save for him and Dex, who is methodically prepping his sticks for the next game. He’s still using the same Bauer he got for Christmas their first year of juniors. It makes C.J. smile; Dex only asked for that model because Toews had it and now he’s playing against Toews with it. He wonders if this doesn’t feel real for Dex sometimes either. 

“You played well tonight,” C.J. says quietly. “Had a couple good shots on goal.” 

Dex grunts.

“You were robbed on that wraparound attempt,” C.J. continues, filling the silence. “I don’t know how he got across in time with the pad to stop it. Otter had a couple good looks from the point on the power play as well.” 

C.J. rips the black stick tape from his calloused fingers and tosses it in the trash. He and Dex haven’t spoken this much to him since C.J. fled Madison; he blames his loose mouth on the orange pill he dissolved in his Gatorade after the final buzzer.

“I’m sorry, you know,” he blurts out. “About what happened in Madison. I don’t have an excuse, I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.” 

Dex sighs. He keeps his eyes on down as he deftly twirls tape around the handle of his stick. “What are you doing, C.J.?”

“I’m just trying to apologize—“ 

“What happened to leaving this shit in the past?” Dex lets out a bitter laugh, a sound C.J. doesn’t think he’s ever heard come out of his mouth before. “This is exactly like you. Trying to make things right just so you can blow them up in my face again. I haven’t forgotten about Minnesota, alright?” 

C.J.’s cheeks heat. “I don’t know what else you want me to say! I’m sorry, okay?”

“I don’t even know what you’re apologizing for at this point,” Dex’s voice drips with rage. “For not having my back when I came out to our entire junior team on the ice after one too many jabs from Greene? For punching me after kissed you? For punching me again when I tried to apologize? For kissing me, letting me sleep in your bed, and letting me believe that maybe we were going to be okay on that roadie in Minnesota? For blowing it all up in my face two days later? Or for fucking off to Canada after the season ended and leaving me alone to deal with the aftermath while I tried to shove myself back in the closet in time for the draft?”

“Fuck,” C.J. mutters around the lump in his throat. “I know I fucked up, okay? I don’t know— Just tell me what to do to fix it and I will, okay?” 

Dex laughs humorlessly. “You can’t just fix this. You fucked me over juniors; you can’t just apologize after spending two years pretending I don’t exist and try to make up, okay? Some stuff you just can’t come back from.” 

C.J.’s ears are buzzing. The shaking is back in his hands. He drops his stick. “I have to go,” he says, desperate to get away before the panic starts to grip him for real. He bolts from the locker room, fishing another tiny orange pill from his pocket as he goes.

 

***

 

The ice is tilting to the left. Though it could be the right; C.J. isn’t sure. All he knows is that it’s making it harder and harder for him to skate a straight line through the neutral zone. He imagines that this is probably what skating on an ice floe would be like. 

He keeps sending the puck to the wrong player in the scrimmage. He wishes that there were fewer defensemen on their team with the same dirty blonde hair as Dex poking out from under their helmets. Dex. He doesn’t want to think about Dex. He did all this so he wouldn’t have to think about Dex. He can feel the eyes of the coaching staff tracking him across the ice, but no matter what he does he can't seem to make his passes connect. Eventually he gets sent off early, but C.J. can’t find it in him to care. 

He's still fully dressed when the rest of the team files back into the locker room. He ignores Fish’s concerned questions and the stares he can feel raising the hair on the back of his neck. Little pinpricks dance across his fingertips and C.J. can’t stop staring down at his hands. He clenches and unclenches his fists while he waits for the feeling to subside. He’s at least a small handful of Klonopin deep by now, but he lost track after the first few did nothing to alleviate the weight of what he did to Dex crushing his chest. 

Once he can focus enough to get his fumbling fingertips to rip the tape from his ankles and pull the knots out of his skate laces, Otter drops down in Fish’s stall. 

“Where’s Fish?” C.J. asks. 

“He already left,” Otter says slowly. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

“I know I sucked today—“

“Sucked is a bit of an understatement, kid. You were skating around like you still played peewee.”

C.J. traces the scar cutting across his knuckle, but he can’t feel that either. “Dex and I played peewee together,” he mumbles. 

Otter groans. His voice is rough, like he spent practice swallowing nails. “Are you even fucking listening to me at all? Everyone has bad days, but you looked like you couldn’t even be bothered to try out there. I  know that this is hard for you, but you have to remember that everyone in this league is expendable. You have to get your head on straight if you want to play in the big leagues.” 

C.J. glances up. He’s struck by how soft Otter looks up close. He remembers the first time he met Otter he thought he looked like a bear, but from here C.J. can see the flecks of grey smudged in his blonde beard and the deep wrinkle smudged between his brows as he stares down at C.J. 

“Are you fucking high right now?” Otter blurts out. “What the actual fuck—you cannot seriously be dumb enough to show up at the rink high.” 

“What? I’m not—“ 

Otter groans again. “You’re full of shit. Your pupils are fucking huge. What the hell did you take?”  

“I didn’t take anything, I swear.”  

“You’re seriously full of shit. I cannot believe you could be so fucking stupid.” Otter’s shouts are echoing around the room. C.J. wants to cover his ears like a child. “And you lied about it to my face. I have done nothing but help you out since you got here and now you’re lying to me of all people.” 

“I’m sorry—“ 

“Seriously, kid, save it for someone who cares. You’ve got to get your head on straight; I can’t keep carrying you for the rest of your career.” C.J. does nothing but watch Otter’s long strides as he storms out of the locker room and leaves C.J. alone. 

 

***

 

No matter how many pills he slips under his tongue, the waves of panic just won’t stop coming. He knows what he must look like right now, he’s hyperventilating and tears are streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto his sweatshirt. He needs to get his shit together. 

His mind won’t stop racing as he trudges up the stairs to the bathroom. He doesn’t know what Dex wants from him. Had he stayed in Madison, both their careers could have been over before they started and then where would they be now? Probably stuck on some third rate minor league team, never to be called up to the show. 

His hands are still numb; he doesn’t know how he drove home without crashing. He fumbles through the medicine cabinet, grabbing prescription bottles of different sizes. He ruined Dex’s life. He lost his best friend and ruined both their lives in the process. _Some things you just can’t come back from._

C.J. gathers up the bottles and brings them to his bedroom. The pills rattle in their containers when he drops them on the carpet. He goes back downstairs and hunts through the kitchen cabinets for his birthday gift from Otter. Bingo. He grabs the bottle of whiskey that is older than he is and brings it to his room. 

(He resolutely does not think about the time he had gone out with his teammates, drunk on whiskey and cheap beer, and spent the entire night eye-fucking a guy at the bar who looked exactly like Dex. It’s a miracle he hadn’t been caught. He stopped drinking in public after that).

He has a stockpile of pills in an array of shapes and colors, has been collecting for a while now. Little white Vicodin for the separated shoulder he got from taking a hit into the boards last season. Bright blue Percocet for the sprained wrist he got in the playoffs. Green-capped Prozac for the turnover that had cost them a game in January. Round yellow Ativan for every scoring chance he missed during the season.  Tiny orange Klonopin for the day his teammates stop believing he never picks up girls just because he’s shy. 

C.J. takes a deep pull from the bottle, wincing at the burn, and settles himself on the floor. He pops the tops off of all the pill bottles, spilling them out onto the carpet into a mix of shapes and colors. He doesn’t hesitate before he scoops up a handful and washes them down with the whiskey. Handful, swig, handful, swig, until his sea of pills turns into a few stray drops. _Some things you just can’t come back from._

He’s dizzy and short of breath when his phone vibrates on his bed. He tries to put the cap back on the whiskey, but his hands are clumsy and it slips out of his grip onto the carpet. The amber liquid spills onto the floor, sticky underneath his feet. He doesn’t bother to pick it up. 

C.J. snatches his phone off from where it’s resting on his bed and fumbles as he enters his lock code.There’s a text from Otter. **Hey, call me. We gotta talk** , the text reads.

Guilt sinks heavily in C.J.’s stomach. He vaguely remembers through the fog clouding his head that he put Otter in a seriously bad position, that Otter is fucking pissed at him. He doesn’t know why Otter still wants to talk to him after that. 

**sory** _,_ he sends back. **Sryy.**  

**What the fuck, did you take something else? Where are you?** C.J. receives almost immediately. 

**IM sorr ok ottr sry bro** he fumbles out before hitting send.  

C.J. lays back on the floor, letting his eyes slip shut. He’s exhausted. He feels completely numb and he just needs to sleep.  

The buzzing of his phone in his hand jerks him back to awareness. Otter is calling. He’s tired, so so tired. He almost rejects the call, but has a change of heart right before he can. Otter, of all people, deserves a proper goodbye. 

“Otter,” he slurs, bringing the phone up to his ear. “Hey.”

“What the actual fuck, C.J.,” Otter shouts into the phone. “Did you seriously take something else? I sent the trainers to go talk to you and they said you took off.” 

“Otter, listen,” C.J. mumbles. “Listen, I love you, bro.” 

“C.J., where are you? Jesus christ, you sound really fucked up. Where are you?” 

C.J.’s tongue feels like lead in his mouth; he can barely form words around it. “Otter… Otter, listen. I have to go, okay. I have to go, but I wanted— I wanted to tell you bye.”

“Fucking hell, rookie, I can barely understand a word you’re saying. Are you at home? Just answer me. I’m going to come get you.” C.J. can barely make sense of what Otter is saying through the roaring in his ears. 

“Home,” C.J. slurs. “Yeah, m’home.”

“Okay, good. I’m coming right now, I’ll be there in five.” 

“M’tired. I don’t feel good.”

“Kid, don’t go to sleep, okay? I need you to stay awake. C.J., hey, I need you to say something,” Otter shouts as the phone slips out of C.J.’s grip and into the pool of whiskey on the floor. “Colin!”


End file.
